“True. And unfortunately, parents and children don’t play on even ground. You can get away with a lot more than I do.”
I grab a seat in front of them. Donna must see the trepidation written on my face, because she stands up and stretches. “I think I’m going to try those new bath bombs Dylan got me. Have a good evening, you two.”
It’s just Dad and me now, and even though I imagined I would get cold feet, I find that I can meet his stare head-on. This is the moment of truth.
“There’s something I’ve been working on these past two months. It was partly for self-healing, to get over what happened with Mom. But also a tribute to her, since she believed in what I did.”
He offers me a small nod.
“I made a sketch for a new headstone for her. I know she already has one. I know I wasn’t there to choose the existing one, and that’s on me. But I thought maybe . . . if you’d let me . . .”
Dad sits back, lacing his fingers together, tapping his lips. “If I’d let you . . . ?”
He is not going to go easy on me. For some reason, this feels really good. He doesn’t treat me like delicate china anymore. That means I’ve grown stronger, right?
“I was wondering if you’d let me replace it. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll hire an artist. I’ll pay for it. And I’ll put it on top of the existing one, so nothing would be removed or disturbed.”
“Do you think she’d have wanted this?” he asks cautiously. He doesn’t take it lightly. After all, it is his late wife we are talking about. And they were crazy about one another.
“Yes.” I chip away at my nail polish. “She always thought my designing headstones was awesome. She used to show my sketches off to clients and curators. I think she’d have appreciated the tribute. No.” I frown. “I don’t think. I know. She told me she’d want me to do this for her when she passed away.”
Still, he is not giving me what I want. I think maybe I’ve found Dad’s red limit. His deceased wife.
He appears deep in thought. “I’ll need to see it first. Renn would want to approve too.”
“That’s not a problem,” I say evenly. “I’ll show you. And I’ll be open to suggestions.”
He offers me a curt nod. “That all?”
“Yes.”
He stands up. Claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Ever. You are turning out to be much stronger than I thought you were. Definitely your mother’s daughter.”
It is Wednesday, at eleven forty-five in the morning, and I want to go home.
I’m standing at the mouth of the Montgomery Street Station, by the stairway leading down to the trains.
This is a mistake. I can’t go back down there. A part of me—the one that clearly needs to be institutionalized—fears that I will walk right into the same gory scene I left behind all those years ago. The blood. The screams. The police tape. The train that stared back at me, daring me to do something.
I stumble to a nearby trash can and puke out my breakfast. I wipe my forehead, which is lined with cool sweat. A couple bypasses me. The woman narrows her eyes at me. I can hear her say, “She doesn’t look like a homeless person, but I guess there are so many of them now it’s hard to tell.”
I’m too disoriented to care what people think about me. I’m shivering. I can’t do this. I have to do this.
I check my watch. It’s eleven fifty-three. Time doesn’t have any significance to me. Nothing stops me from getting into the train station right this moment. Or at twelve thirty, for that matter. But I don’t want to go off script here. Every minor change is a threat.
Pacing back and forth, I think about yesterday at dinner, when I showed Dad, Renn, and Donna my headstone sketch. They seemed to like it. This morning, I made some phone calls and asked around about sculptors who work with granite. It’s going to put a real dent in my savings, but it’s going to be worth it.
Eleven fifty-nine, and it is time to face the music.
I clutch the banister as I make my way down the stairs. The thick throng of people shoulder past me, unaware of and uninterested in my heartache. As soon as I’m inside, I lean against a column. I draw a deep breath full of sweat, piss, and steel brake dust.
I am here.
I am underground.
Just a couple of feet away from where it happened.
This is the place that made me who I am. My breaking point. This, right here, is why I carry all the guilt. All the self-loathing. This inherent sense of disbelief. That nothing is going to be okay. That things won’t really get better. That time doesn’t heal. It just makes you feel like you’re stuck in a loop.